Worth Something
by Nima920
Summary: Mila Reid has always held fast to her belief that pure and wonderful things can be borne in the darkest times, but her ideals are dealt blow after blow by the primitive world of the dead. In order to do more than just survive, she must discover what it is that makes her life worth something. (Gradual Daryl/OC pairing, but not solely based in romance. More like bildungsroman.)
1. Worth Something

**For those of you who have been following this story and are receiving alerts saying that I have replaced a few chapters, I apologize for my alterations to them this late in the game. However, I feel like the story needs them considering that (for example) this chapter was written with the intent to never publish about this character again. It was supposed to accomplish several goals very quickly and therefore it feels a bit rushed and awkward. As a stand-alone story, it was probably pretty decent, but I am almost embarrassed when I read it in context. Therefore, I have decided to give it a few much-needed adjustments. I'm sorry for the inconvenience!**

 **Note: I originally wrote this story to contrast a lot of the Daryl/OC fanfics that I have read on different websites. To each his own, but I wanted to read something that didn't rush the romance story because Norman Reedus himself was once quoted to have said, "I'm trying to play [Daryl] like a total virgin.** **Like if someone were to try to kiss him he'd be like, 'Eeeeee.'" I've always gotten that vibe from Reedus's Daryl anyway; He probably wouldn't know how to react to some girl hitting on him! When I first wrote this story, there weren't going to be any more chapters, but then I got some ideas. So before you get started, you should know two things: (if you're here for the romance) the relationship between Daryl and the OC will be _slow-developing_ to say the least (seriously, you're gonna have to be here a while) and this story has expanded beyond a romance story. If what you gleaned from the summary is that Daryl is the sole thing that gives Mila's life meaning, you are sadly, or happily (depending on how that would make you feel), mistaken; therefore, every chapter will not revolve around the OC only when she's with Daryl. This is her story. Reviews will be greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy! **

_**IMPORTANT P.S.**_ ** _Mila joined Rick's group right about the time that Shane initiated his plan to kill Rick by taking Randall Culver into the woods. This story begins sometime between seasons 3 and 4, so she has been with them for a little over a year now. I tried to make this version of Daryl reflect the time in which the story is set; he's still getting used to being looked up to so he doesn't always know how to be diplomatic but he's definitely starting to take on a leadership position in the group and he's rounding out as a character. The people of Woodbury have probably been at the prison about two months. The search for the Governor has been abandoned as an organized effort. The council has only recently been formed.  
_**

The walker fell from her hands and dropped to the ground, its body landing with a loud thud. Mila paused for a moment, blinking in surprise, and slowly wiped the blood spatter from her face. Daryl made his way past her and pulled the bolt from the walker's skull. It came free with a horrible squelching sound. He shook his head and sighed, wiping the blood from his projectile onto the thigh of his ripped jeans.

"What the hell, Daryl?" Mila spurned. She shoved her Bowie knife back into its place along her belt, buttoning the snap over its guard. Her long, sandy blond bangs untucked from behind her ear and fell over her eyes as she looked back at him. "Stop doing that! I came out here to do this- so that I wouldn't forget how to do this! This is the third opportunity I've had today to bring one down, and it's also the third opportunity that you've taken from me!"

"You're gonna get yourself killed," he said casually, without looking at her. "We both know why you're really out here anyway," he added more softly. He grunted as the string of his crossbow cocked back into place. Mila looked at him with wide eyes, blood rushing to her cheeks.

"What is that supposed to mean - ?"

Daryl whirled to face her, his eyes just a few inches from hers. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! What is this to you? Is this your idea of a first date?!" he snarled. He scanned down her body quickly and looked back into her eyes. "It ain't a game when you come out here. You're gonna end up just like one of these dumb bastards," he pointed at the body with the arrow in his hand, "because you _did_ forget what it's like outside the walls." He readied the arrow and threw the crossbow back over his shoulder. He turned, his boots kicking up leaves as he began to stomp away.

Mila made no moves to follow him. She closed her partially-open mouth and blinked back the tears beginning to pool over her bottom eyelids. "Is that really what you think of me? You're an idiot!" Anger rose in her voice as he stopped and looked back at her with a scowl across his face. "I didn't come out here just to trail you like a damn bird dog!" she yelled, waving a hand in the air. "Yeah, you're not stupid. Maybe you've figured out that I wanted to be out here with you! But I'm not some dumb bitch fumbling around for ideas to impress you! And how dare you insinuate that!" Her voice quivered slightly as she softened. "I wasn't lying. I came out here for the exact reason I told you. I wanted to practice taking care of myself. . . . That prison . . . one day those walls are gonna fall. It could be five years- ten years- from now, or it could be tomorrow. I want to be prepared for when they do. I want to survive. I only asked you to come with me because I think I can count on you."

Daryl's shoulders relaxed somewhat. He averted his gaze to the forest floor as she lowered her head and wiped her brow with her arm. His lips parted slowly as if he was going to speak before he closed them again. Mila looked down the toes of her boots. He waited a moment before offering any more words.

"Hey," he called gently. "We're gonna keep those walls standin'." He dipped his chin a little in affirmation.

She pored over his face before meeting his eyes. "No. The world's got a way of taking your choices away from you. Things don't just work out because we want them to. Or even because we plan for them to." She brushed past him and walked back up the trail heading the way they came and Daryl's face twisted back into a glare as he followed; they hiked back along the path towards the prison, leaving the rest of the traps unchecked. Only the trill of the spring crickets and the lilting voices of the birds sounded in the silence.

* * *

The gates rattled open as the two reached the prison. Daryl passed by the gatekeepers who greeted him without saying a word. Mila stopped just inside the closing chain link that separated safety from exposure and gazed at the dirt road leading to the prison yard but was broken from her reverie by Michonne calling her name. Michonne slowed from a jog, glancing at Daryl as she reached her friend.

"You're back." Mila said, emotionless, curling the corners of her lips into a forced smile. "Did you find him?"

Michonne smiled back, but dropped her head when she answered. "No. At least not yet," she smiled again. She seemed to wonder what had transpired between Mila and Daryl, but she reserved her curiosity for later.

"If anyone can, you will. You just need more time," Mila comforted. "When did you get back?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"I guess you needed me for something?"

"Yeah!" Michonne confirmed, remembering what had brought her to the gate in the first place. "It's no big deal, but I've run into a little problem with Flame. She keeps trying to walk off when I try to get on her, and I don't know how to fix it. You think you can do anything about it?"

"Definitely," Mila chirped, walking towards the corral. "Is she still saddled?"

"Yeah. You're gonna do this right now?" Michonne questioned in confusion.

"Why not?" she answered quickly. "Now there's two basic things I can think of that can lead to that issue. One, you're hanging in the stirrup too long and it's pulling her off balance. That will put her into the habit of catching herself by taking a few steps, but, considering how you hop into that saddle, I doubt that's the problem. My bet's on her getting used to being walked or trotted as soon as you get up there. She's just gettin' ahead of you is all. Horses are creatures of habit; they do best what they do most. She's just got to be reminded that a mount doesn't necessarily mean she needs to get in a hurry."

Flame tossed her head in the air as Mila opened the wooden gate of the corral. One of her ears flicked back and forth from the side and Mila's direction as she untied the reins from one of the horizontal posts that made up the fence. Mila decided to teach the horse and her pupil by a physical demonstration rather than verbal instruction. She was not in the mood for words and working silently with a horse took her back to her time before the Fall, reminding her of all the hours she spent alone at her tiny, ramshackle barn with the gelding she rescued.

He had been her first horse. When he came to her, he was a young, 14 hand, emaciated outlaw of a bronco. Sometimes he won whatever wordless argument they were having, yet she learned much of what she knew about horses by trial and error with him, namely how to turn a reactive, aggressive animal into a compatible and compliant partner; it was a process of developing mutual respect and trust. Flame reminded her of him in some ways. She was responsive to even the most minimal of cues and knew how to take advantage of the insecurities of beginner riders. Mila took her time with the horse. When she lifted her foot to the stirrup and the horse moved, she swung the near rein causing Flame to yield her hindquarters in a circular dance. After six attempts, the mare stood still while Mila climbed on. Mila lifted each rein subtly and Flame flexed her neck until her nose touched the tips of her rider's boots on either side.

"There you go," she said, giving the horse a pat on the neck as she dismounted. Michonne grinned and shook her head as she held out her hand for the reins.

"That's all it took?"

"Yeah. You just kind of take on the 'if you want to move, then we'll move' mentality. Make her question whether or not that's what she really wants to do. But you are probably going to have to do that yourself for a while."

Michonne started to untie the saddle cinch. "Hey. What happened out there today? Between you and Daryl."

"Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding," she replied, nodding.

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright." Michonne let the matter drop, swinging the saddle over the boards of the corral.

"Don't forget to make sure she's still got it before you head out again," Mila said, pointing at Flame. "Practice it- fix it again- if need be. You don't want to have her walking off without you if you get in a tight out there. I'll see you later."

Mila made her way back through the prison yard, nodding in acknowledgement to the hellos she received and weaving through the clusters of its new inhabitants. The former residents of Woodbury had brought with them a bustling crowdedness that she often appreciated. Their presence and their shelteredness from the way things were now helped her to remember what it was like living in the world before the Fall. She kept walking though she noticed Carol eyeing her from the rations tent with a look of intrigue. She reached the door to C Block and opened it. The resounding metallic whine it unleashed was now the sound of her front door, the sound of her home. In the time before, she would have hated that sound; she had always found metal and concrete to be very uninviting. Although the end of the world had not changed her opinion of it, it had changed her aversion to it.

She climbed wearily to the top of the stairs but stopped when she saw Daryl laying on his thin bunk mattress in the loft, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He glared icily at her for a second before rolling over, cradling his head in the crook of his dirty arm. She sighed and stepped over the bottom corner of his bed where his foot lay and trudged to her cell. It was the last cell on the top floor, closest to the far wall from the entrance. She had chosen it shortly after their arrival when they first cleared the prison, and it had provided her with an oasis of solitude amid the busyness that had since befallen the place.

She softly closed the barred door behind her, the metal clinking into place. The room smelled slightly stale, but the muted odor of a pumpkin scented candle and two Little Tree car air fresheners combated the unpleasant dankness. Thin pastel sheets with elephant prints hung just inside the bars of the cell like a veil to provide her with a measure of privacy; they had been a gift from Gina, one of the Woodbury refugees, not long after they got to know each other. On the left wall, just inside the door, was a brown shelf and coat rack nailed into the concrete, from which hung an extra jacket and necklaces. She had placed a few of her amateur attempts at wood-carved sculptures along the shelf. Along the wall opposite to the bed was a small but surprisingly heavy hickory writing desk atop which sat her neatly organized books, journal entries, educational notes, and charcoal drawings as well as a yellow coffee mug containing a collection of pencils and erasers. Her better drawings were tacked in a meticulously straight line above the desk. Adjacent to her writing space was a blue filing cabinet with three drawers; she used the top drawer for any weapon small enough to fit inside (because it could be locked), she used the middle drawer for shirts, and she used the bottom drawer for pants. Over the sink was an old mirror with a broken wooden frame that left the bottom left corner of the cloudy glass exposed.

She flopped herself onto the bottom bunk, landing on her back, and breathed heavily before rolling over to reach for the blue, paperback King James Bible which rested on the end table behind her head. Closing her jade eyes, she used her thumb to randomly select a passage to read. The roulette landed her in the book of Hosea. She began in chapter one, carefully drinking in each word, contemplating all of them until she reached chapter three.

 _It never stopped being true_ , she thought, laying the Bible, pages down, over her middle. _All this time. All the things that have happened. But it never stopped being true._ She closed her eyes and practiced memorizing each verse until sleep overtook her.

* * *

Mila awoke to a dim glow of the morning light through the thin sheets that separated her from the rest of the prison, the blue, hazy cast warming her face. It was early, and only a few people could be heard stirring about beside and beneath her. When they spoke, they spoke only in whispers to each other that echoed as soft whistles through the halls. She looked down to her stomach where one of her hands laid over the still-open Bible. Sitting up, she glanced over the pages once more before closing it and practiced the verses again. She was much closer than she had been the night before to being able to quote them verbatim.

She left her room to prepare herself for the day, noticing that Daryl's mattress was one of the few empty ones as she descended down the stairs. She showered, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. She loved the mornings. Like working with Flame, they reminded her of the time before; she had always loved mornings. Sometimes the colors they featured mimicked that of the sunsets, but the light was gentler, less harsh, and, to her, they were always more serene. Every living thing faced a new beginning. A new opportunity to thrive.

Opening the door to the outside of the prison, she paused to watch Michonne flex Flame from the saddle and Hershel beholding the gardens. They were mostly silhouettes against the soft pink and blue of the morning sky. Mila drew in a deep breath and rested a hand on the railing next to her, running her fingertips along its surface to feel the cool morning dew and see the water bead up and roll down the metal like raindrops. As tears welled in her eyes, she smiled to herself. There were no walkers snarling or clinging to the fences that morning. Others might have called it a lucky few days or a job well-done by the fence cleaners, but she called it a blessing. _This is why I'm here,_ she reflected. _I'm here to witness this morning and to watch the people I love witness this morning._  
Wiping her eyes, she hopped down the steps and crossed the yard to meet Hershel in the field. He waved goodbye to Michonne as she rode placidly through the gates which were closed behind her with a tinkling rattle. Hershel then turned to see his student.

"Good morning," he saluted. "How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well," she replied happily, "but hard. I didn't dream, and I don't think I so much as rolled over all night."

"I'm jealous. A good night's sleep has been hard to come by for most people these days. Did you read anything last night?"

This was their morning ritual. People of faith in this world were even more scarce than the sleep that eluded so many, so talk of the Bible and spiritual concerns was a cherished common ground between the two. Before undertaking whatever tasks were before them, they always exchanged ideas on whatever they may have read the previous night, expressing their revelations of its application to daily life.

"Hosea."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Not really, no. I more remembered something than learned something."

"What's that?"

"Well," she began, "there's always something to make life worth living."

Hershel tilted his head to the side but she did not explain herself. ". . . Always. . . . It's time to get started, I suppose. Are you ready? We've got veterinary-related work to do today."

There were now two fully-fledged doctors in the camp. Dr. S., as he had been nicknamed, and Hershel were both experienced medical professionals, but Mila's college major and learning style made her more suited to apprenticeship under the latter. She had just made it through her third semester in a veterinary college in Alabama when the world ended, making the two a natural pair that clicked even more perfectly due to the fact that Mila looked up to Hershel. Nearly every day since the day after the Woodbury residents had sought shelter in the prison, she studied and trained to complete her education. She knew its usefulness to the encampment.

"That sow is just about ready to have her pigs," Hershel explained, pointing to the far end of the hog pen. "We need to get things ready for her."

* * *

"Thanks for your help. You're retaining things pretty well," Hershel smiled. It was mid-afternoon. The morning had been spent building a farrowing crate to increase the chances of the piglets' survival when the time came for their birth. The rest of the time had been spent on discussions about general hog health and physiology.

"I learn by being a part of whatever is going on," Mila responded with a shrug. She glimpsed past him, seeing the gates opening for Daryl. He was empty-handed, other than his crossbow; whether he had gone out to hunt or to bring back a meal from the remaining traps, he had been unsuccessful. Still looking over Hershel's shoulder, she spoke, "Hey, if you don't mind, I'd like to call this an early day. I mean, if there's anything else that you can think of that we need done, I'll stay, but I've got a few personal things to take care of."

"No, I think most of the chores that necessarily require our expertise are done for the day. Besides, the council is going to have a meeting tonight. If you've got something you need to do, you're free to go."

"Oh." Mila's tone flattened slightly. "Around what time are you going to have the meeting?"

"Sometime around dusk." He turned to see what she was watching, and though she looked back at him quickly, she knew that she there was no covering for herself when he looked at his feet and chuckled. She felt a feverish warmth travel into her face as her cheeks flushed. He spared her further embarrassment by simply adding, "The meeting should only last about an hour." Mila nodded, her cheeks still on fire. Deciding to protect what was left of her shredded pride in front of Hershel, she took a shift cleaning the fence; it had built up a considerable amount of walkers by that time. While she desperately wanted to speak with Daryl, she was unwilling to do it at the expense of any more humiliation before her mentor.

The chain link rattled as new bodies lined up to be put down by the inhabitants of the prison. Although the hissing and gurgling of the dead was loud, it did not drown out the dialogue in which the workers were so intently engaged. The conversations among the survivors was lackadaisical; many centered around the satisfying breakfast they had shared that morning, and others concerned a guessing game as to how old each respective person was. The low chatter was calming, but Mila did not say much. Most of these people were still strangers to her. With the exception of Gina and Izach, she had not held so much as a formal exchange with any one of them. While they did not make her feel decidedly unwelcome, neither did they make her feel decidedly welcome. She listened as an outsider, content to nourish her need for companionship by simply observing the banter.

* * *

Mila waited until a few hours after dark before attempting to seek Daryl out. She rose up from her bunk quietly. Using her fingers, she peeled back the makeshift curtains to her room and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim halls. The moonlight illuminated the mattress at the top of the stairs. In the silver-white glow of the night, it lay empty. She eased her cell door open so as not to disturb any of her sleeping neighbors, but the grinding moan of the hinges betrayed her attempt at stealth. She gritted her teeth and winced at its unceremonious howl. Squeezing through the still partially-shut door, she shook her head. _I'm gonna have to ask for one of the run crews to bring back some WD-40._

Outside, the world was bathed in the soft gleam of the moon which glimmered and scintillated as it landed on a few broken pieces of glass next to the brick wall of the other cell block. A choir of crickets sang a ceremonious hymn and cicadas sang the harmonies. She looked to her right to see the red-orange glow of someone pulling on a cigarette. She walked closer but it was not Daryl. She quietly apologized and sauntered back towards the field. Around forty walkers stood snapping and snarling outside the fences. Others were scattered in the wood line beyond the moat. Surveying the grass, she finally spotted a figure hunched in the darkness next to the horse corral.

"Daryl, is that you?" Mila inquired softly. She heard his familiar grunt of reply. "Can I sit down?" She held her hands up in front of her chest. "I come in peace," she said, with Daryl still not looking at her. He picked a piece of grass and wound it around his index finger, his elbow resting on his knee. The moon glinted off of the crossbow propped up beside him. He nodded, looking at the grass and biting his inner lip as was his habit. Mila dropped, cross-legged, into the grass next to him and waited before speaking.

She decided to begin with a bit of small talk to test his mood. "What was the council meeting about? If I might be so bold as to ask."

"They're talking about bringin' people in."

"Really?"

"Yeah. . . . If we meet anyone out on the road- anyone we think might be good people- we'll ask 'em three questions. They give good answers, they can come back with us."

She raised her eyebrows. "What are the questions?" Daryl at last looked at Mila. Though his expression was mostly neutral, his eyes contained a hint of regret. ". . . You can practice the interrogation with me," she jested, hoping to brighten his countenance.

Daryl just looked back at his hands. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"I . . . maybe ten, give or take. . . . You lose count."

"How many people have you killed?"

She turned to look at him again. His hair had fallen into his face and he had plucked another blade of grass from the earth. ". . . One."

He turned to her in tactful surprise. "Why?" he finished, leaning back.

Mila considered the question carefully. A full minute passed before she answered.

"You can't always protect everyone you love." They sat silently for several minutes, both staring up into the sky, watching clouds drift past the twinkling stars. Mila breathed in deeply through her nose. She could smell the rotting corpses plaguing the fence, but she could also smell the moist earth beneath her and the piney aroma that clung to Daryl's boots.

"Daryl, I'm sorry about the other day."

"Nah. I started that shit. I shouldn't have made it into something it wasn't." She looked at his hands, now tearing the blade of grass into tiny fragments.

"I'm just wondering if . . . maybe you didn't understand me. At least not fully." He did not endeavor to respond; he only dropped the grass and began biting his nails. "First of all, yeah, I really care about you, Daryl. Maybe it's not the way you want me to, or maybe you can't reciprocate those feelings. But more than that, I respect you. And I respect you enough not to try and force the matter of . . . whether or not there's an us, but that doesn't mean I don't want to help watch your back sometimes and have the chance to be around you. And I want you to respect that. Because people like you make me want to live. And not just be alive. . . ." She looked down at his boots before continuing. "Oh, and in order for me to consider anything a date, you would have had to ask me to be there with clear romantic intent. That's just something you should know about me." Mila grinned and elbowed him gently. She thought she saw a small smile spread on his face, if only for a second.

"As far as what I said about the prison falling . . . well. . . ." she thought carefully before proceeding, as she noticed a distinct frown form on his face. "It's always been my experience that nothing tangible is ever permanent, whether it's something good or bad. But even when things go dark . . . that doesn't mean that there isn't something beautiful in the darkness. . . .

"I don't . . . want to bore you, but have you ever read the book of Hosea in the Bible?" Daryl looked at her and shook his head silently. "Well, long story short, the Israelites were worshiping other gods. And God compared them to Hosea and his unfaithful wife. They needed to be brought back to their senses somehow, so God was gonna break them. Take everything from them. And He did. . . . But then He said I will draw her into the wilderness and there I will speak tenderly to her. And she shall no longer call me Master, she shall call me Husband. And she will sing there as in the days of her youth.

"See, even when times are the darkest, I believe that we can find some sort of beauty in it. . . . Kind of like the stars. You can't really behold them in all their beauty without the black canvas of the night sky to contrast them. . . . If the world had kept on going- like it was before- you wouldn't have found yourself the way you did. And we- our group- we would never have found each other. . . . We've given each other purpose. Trying to protect each other, and even by the little things we do for each other, we make each day mean something. And before long, even the people from Woodbury will be part all of that.

"I just want you to know that even though I don't think the prison will last forever that it's not all about just making it one more day to me. It's about making one more day worth something." As she ended her disquisition, neither of them spoke for a while, opting to let the cool night breeze drift by them instead. Both of them looked up towards the sky, the effulgence of the lesser light shining down on their introspective faces. Though the pearly clouds crossed by the moon occasionally and dimmed the world, the ground remained well-illuminated by the silvery light.

Several minutes passed before Daryl turned and stared soberly into Mila's eyes. She looked back at him without saying anything.

"I wanna keep this place goin'," he said. "For Carl. For Little Asskicker. For Rick. Glenn and Maggie. Hershel. You. And I think we're gonna be alright. Cause we're gonna make things alright. We're gonna do what we gotta do to keep this place safe for each other." He deliberated his gaze. "If there's anythin' you need . . . I'm gone be right here," he said with a nod.

Mila's eyes glistened. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and laughed softly, taking Daryl's hand. Though it jerked slightly beneath her palm, he did not withdraw it. A tear rolled down her left cheek and splashed on her leg before soaking into the fabric of her jeans. "Well," she uttered, "I do need some WD-40 if you happen to spot some next time you're out there."

The corner of his lips tilted into a crooked smile. "I'll get it."

They both looked up at the stars shining between the slow-drifting clouds above as the cool breeze blew by.


	2. Hosea

**Note: A significant amount of time has passed between chapter 1 and this chapter, but the events of "30 Days Without an Accident" (season 4's premiere) have still not come to pass. It's the time of the Easter cold-snap that always comes in the South, the last cold before summer really kicks in (because spring really only lasts about a week or two in the South).  
**

The rays of the sun glimmered down through the budding green leaves and the evergreen needles of the forest's canopy, splashing the ground with vibrant yellow light. A gentle breeze carried with it the scent of rain and a biting chill. Hosea gathered the reins in one hand and adjusted the heavy collar of his canvas jacket with the other, shielding himself from the Northwest wind. The leather ranch saddle beneath him squeaked as he shifted his weight to battle the discomfort he felt in his inner thighs. He was still a long way from his destination; while he was determined to reach it, he knew he would have to start looking for a defensible place to make camp before nightfall.

He had been on his own for months, his only companions the two horses with whom he had survived since the Fall. Eli, a sorrel tabiano, had been his working steed in the world before. He was a stocky, well-bred animal with an active mind. The medicine hat marking extended from his small, alert ears to the curve of his broad jaw, and from the sides of his large pink nose to the middle of his forehead stretched a white blaze. His wide shoulders were covered by a large red spot that reached to the middle of his cannons on both of his sides. On his left hip, he bore a white HR brand a round marking that did not quite paint the hinder part of his leg.

The other equid was Inky, a tall quarter horse, nearly 16 hands in height, with only a crooked white stripe, snip, and sock on his right foreleg to disrupt the blackness of his coat. He was much more gentle in nature, having the advantage of additional years to sooth his nervous instincts. Carrying the heavy bags Hosea placed across his back with little fuss and a low head, he sidled behind Eli in tandem.

The paint ceased from his sprightly gait abruptly and, raising his head high, fixed his gaze on the man in the path before them, causing Hosea to lurch forward, off balance. The man wore a black leather vest and held a camouflage crossbow in his hands. Four bolts with green and white fletchings lined the quiver. The fifth was locked into place along the length of the bow, ready to fire. He had seen Hosea first and stood there, one booted foot slightly ahead of the other, with the weapon held low, his lips slightly parted. He rocked back and forth, shifting his weight from one leg to the other a moment before speaking.

"Who're you?" he asked. His voice was gruff and deep, but not uncivil. Hosea scrutinized his appearance. He had a rugged look; the patchy goatee and long hair he sported suggested that he was not one to worry with such trifles as pulchritude. But he was mostly clean, far too clean to be living on the road.

"I'm Hosea," he answered hesitantly. He inched his fingertips towards the polished wooden grip of the .44 holstered beneath the horn bag just in front of his right knee. "What do you want?"

"You by yourself out here?" the man inquired, ignoring Hosea's question.

"No. I have these two horses with me."

The man in the vest looked at the leaf-covered ground and nodded, biting the skin inside his lip. "Yep," he said, "and I bet they're glad they got a smartass along for the ride."

Hosea's eyes squinted into a stern gaze. "Watch your mouth, please. I loath profanity."

The man shifted his weight again to his far leg as he pored over the horses and the rider. There was a long pause before Hosea began again. "Do you have a camp nearby?"

The man looked down, thinking before he spoke up. "How many walkers have you killed?" he asked, ignoring another question. Hosea's irritation and anxiety intensified; it made him uncomfortable to be asked questions when he received no answers to his own.

"I don't keep a tally."

"How many people have you killed?"

Irritation was remodeled into confusion, but the anxiety remained, heightening again. "Why do you want to know that?"

"Just answer the question."

"Thirteen."

"Why?"

Eli shuffled his feet, but Hosea held him in place by adjusting the position of the reins on the horse's neck. Eager to be on the move again, he bent his head down, his neck a muscled arch, and pawed at the ground. Hosea stared into the blue eyes of the man before him, unblinking.

"They deserved what they got," he responded confidently.

The man in the vest shook his head, as if it was not quite the answer he was expecting or maybe just not the inflection. "What's 'at supposed to mean?"

"No man should have to watch his daughters be tortured before his eyes. They deserved what they got," he reaffirmed as his grip tightened around the pistol. It flashed like lightening and the smell of gunpowder burst into the air as the bullet ripped from its chamber.


	3. The Burning of Our House

**Note: I can't watch nude scenes in movies without getting all embarrassed, so, while I wanted to get the point across for the origin story, I wanted to do it with a level of tact. The title comes from an Anne Bradstreet poem ("Upon the Burning of Our House"). Give it a read!**

There was an uneasy quiet about the night. The only sounds the three could hear were the distant hoots of barred owls and the soft crackling of the twigs in the yellow campfire around which they were huddled. Hosea looked beside him to his daughters. What he wouldn't do to protect them. Nearest to him, his eldest adjusted the tightly knit blanket swaddling them, hiding her face from the warm glow of the fire. The younger repositioned her head on her sisters shoulder.

"Jody" The youngest looked up at her father as he spoke, the light dancing in her eyes. "You did a good job today. I always knew I raised a strong baby girl. . . . You're going to be fine out here."

Her older sister looked at her without moving her head much, so as not to disturb her. "If you keep that up, you'll outlive Dad and me."

Though the statement was meant to build her confidence, Jody focused her eyes back on the flames with a frown and a furrowed brow. The small upward-tilt at the top of her nose turned noticeably red, and her lips drew in tightly. ". . . I don't want to outlive you," she managed, a distinct lump in her throat.

Hosea gave the eldest a look of gentle disapproval which she attempted to avoid by averting her eyes to the blanket beneath her nose. "I just mean that I'm proud of you. You can take care of yourself. . . . You don't need anyone to protect you," she explained, desperately grasping at words that might assuage the aftermath of the unpalatable remark.

None of them spoke again, deciding that the eery silence of the night was better than another perfunctory comment on the day's horrors. The three still-saddled horses shifted behind them nervously. Leaves rustled in the bushes right of them, and all three weary campers jumped to their feet. Hosea thought quickly and elected to reach for his machete in favor of his revolver; it wouldn't do to call more walkers to the area than was necessary by firing a shot in their vulnerable position.

A figure appeared in the darkness, with an arm raised. "Whoa, easy there," it said. It was a man's voice. It was a pleasant tenor, soothing to the ear, but his accent was not a colloquial one. Something silver glinted in the outstretched hand. "My gun is drawn and ready to fire. Please put down your weapons. All of them. Sir, that means both that machete and the gun I see in your belt."

The girls looked, terrified, at their father, who nodded slowly. Hosea's machete dropped to the ground, and, with one hand in the air, he pulled his pistol from its place using his thumb and index finger, laying it on the ground gently.

"We're gonna come out," the man stated. Four of them, including the one with the aimed gun stepped out from behind the hawthorne. The tenor man had short, brown hair and, though he was an average height, stood slightly shorter than his companions. One came to collect the weapons lying in the dirt; he was a burly man with a black beard that was cleanly kept. His lower lip puckered out over his chin slightly. 'Three' began to frisk each person in the family, and found no weapons that had not been turned over. He was by far the tallest, with a skinny build akin to that of a basketball player and blond hair that had not been cut in a while. The fourth was a few years younger; there could not have been a very big age difference between Jody and him.

The two that had taken the weapons, added them to a black zippered backpack that rested on the young one's shoulders. When they were finished, Hosea spoke. "I'm Hosea. These are my daughters, Mila and Jody. You can lower your weapon. We've complied with what you want."

The tenor man bent his elbow so that the barrel of his gun pointed towards the treetops, but said nothing. He seemed to think a while until the bearded man elbowed him and whispered something in his ear. They both laughed and the tall one grinned. Hosea shifted uneasily; there was nothing funny about the situation.

"It's a good thing you've complied. It makes what happens next easier," he said, smiling. His tone had changed; it was no longer polite and firm but menacing and austere. He looked at the girls who had taken a few steps back, Jody's hand on Mila's wrist. "Nice to meet you," he bowed his head.

"If you come any closer, I'm going to kill you," Hosea threatened, stepping between the men and his daughters. Blood pumped loudly in his ears and his arms and legs started to tingle as his anger and fear rose hot into his throat.

The silver semiautomatic colt clicked in the tenor man's grip as he pointed it at Hosea's nose. "Really? You gonna stop us with your bare hands?" His companions drew their weapons, too. Hosea looked at each of them, his eyes lingering on the younger boy with crooked teeth who looked unsure of everything happening around him. A small black gun in his hands shook slightly. Hosea stumbled backwards a bit, his heart dropping to his toes. The bearded man reached in the backpack where they had put the stolen weapons and pulled out a handful of long, black zip ties.  
There was a long pause before the tall one asserted, "I want the blond one."

"Get on your knees, old man. Randall, zip tie him. . . . Make him watch. If he moves . . . shoot him," the tenor man commanded.


	4. Reunion

There was a tightness in Mila's chest that made it difficult for her to breathe, and it left her more out of breath as she sprinted. The roar of the gunshot still resounded in the air. The worn out leather boots she wore sent shocks of pain through her insteps as all of the cushioning had long since been flattened out, but she felt them less and less as her heart pounded in her chest. She cleared her mind so that she would be ready for whatever situation she might herself in.

"Daryl!" she yelled, seeing him dive behind a tree.

Daryl's eyes widened when he saw her. "Get down!" he bellowed in reply. She obeyed by leaning forward and bending at the knees but kept up her hurried pace. When she reached him, she dropped into the dirt beside him. "What the hell are you doin' here?!" he asked incredulously.

Mila ignored him and cocked her 9mm. In one motion she swung over him and landed on her right knee to aim the gun at the shooter.

"No!" Daryl exclaimed. Before he pulled her back behind the safety of the tree, her mouth fell open and she dropped her gun. Daryl snatched her by the arm with both hands, causing her to land beside him on her back.

She propped herself up with her elbows. "Dad . . . " she breathed.

Daryl looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"Dad!" she called louder, still looking absently at the ground in front of her. Daryl leaned over her, causing her to look at him. Her vision blurred as tears came to her eyes, and her nose turned bright red. "That's my dad. . . ." she whimpered.

There was a brief pause before the answer.

"Mila?"

Daryl watched her as she stood up and stepped out from behind the tree slowly. She stared as Hosea fought to steady Eli with one hand and hold Inky with the other, looking at her between boughts. She heard Daryl rise to his feet and felt his presence as he stood behind her. In her peripheral vision, she saw him ready his bow. The paint spun in a half circle one more time before finally dropping his head and snorting.

"Mila," Hosea said, as if to confirm it to himself.

Mila stood in awe; Hosea looked distinctly different than he had the last time she saw him. The stubble that had been growing on his chin and cheeks had become a full, thick beard sprinkled with gray hairs. He had lost a good deal of weight and his cheeks were gaunt. But more than that, he just seemed older, as if time and tragedy had taken their toll.

He swung his right leg over the horse's back and stepped down from the saddle without taking his eyes off of her.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, still pointing his crossbow, as Hosea dropped the reins and walked towards them; there was a determination in his step and a spark in his eyes. With both arms, he drew Mila into a hearty embrace, and, cradling her head in his palm, his shoulders began to heave.

Mila stood motionless, her arms limp by her sides. She heard her father exhale a few ragged breaths before she started to sob.  
Hosea gripped his daughter's shoulders and examined her at arm's length. "I was afraid I'd never see you again," he said with a trembling voice. He studied her face for a long while. "Who is this man?" he whispered, finally glancing at Daryl.

"No. . . . His name is Daryl. He's a good man. He's been helping to keep me safe with his-" she closed her eyes and sighed, correcting herself, "our- group." Daryl's gaze fixed on her as she explained. Hosea looked back towards him.

"I'm sorry I took a shot at you," he said, abashed. "I thought you were . . . someone else. Maybe one of the men who deserved it." His eyes drifted to the leaves in the path at Daryl's feet.

Daryl's eyes narrowed and darted between the reunited pair. "I'm okay. You did what you thought you had to do."

"As I said before, I'm Hosea," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for protecting my daughter all this time."

Daryl hesitated before shaking it. "It wa'n't just me. There's a lot of us. Those questions I asked you were to see if you were gonna be a good fit for the group. Seein' as she knows ya, I guess she can vouch for ya."

"He should come," Mila answered, avoiding eye contact with Daryl. She tried to look less downcast than she was, but feared that she failed when Daryl cocked his head to the side subtly.

". . . Okay then. Come on. It's gone get dark 'fore long."


	5. In Confidence

The last hopeful rays of the sun were sinking behind the trees lining the horizon, painting the sky a deep red and the low-drifting cumulus clouds a shadowy, monochrome purple. Upon reaching the prison, Mila had introduced Hosea to Rick and Carl who met them at the gate; Carl took the horses to the pen where Flame was. Daryl spoke to Carol a moment before getting something to eat and heading into the prison; after the brief exchange, she turned to Hosea, offering salutations and a tour of his new abode. Mila followed but let Carol do all of the talking, only occasionally nodding in agreement with what she said when he father looked to her for her opinions or recommendations. The tour ended at Mila's cell, where Hosea would be sleeping that night.

"Thank you for showing me around," Hosea said to Carol. His manners were impeccable, but Mila knew him well enough to know that he was ready for her to excuse herself. He was obviously tired; moreover, she knew that he longed to speak to her alone.

"My pleasure," Carol responded with a small smile. "I guess I'll leave you to it, then. Make yourself comfortable." She walked away, pausing to glance back at Mila, who shot her a pleading look that went unsympathetically unanswered.

Hosea then focused his attention on his daughter. He looked as if he was preparing to say something, but Mila cut him off. "I'm gonna take a watch tonight. You can sleep on my bed while I'm gone," she said, turning on her heel and leaving him standing solitarily in the threshold of her room.

She saw that Daryl was laying on his mattress at the top of the stairs, his grey-blue eyes following her from beneath his lashes as she passed by. As she reached the door to go outside, she heard him sigh and rouse from his position, and, though she looked back, she did not wait for him, deciding that if he wished to inquire as to what had her acting so strangely towards her father it would be better done in private.

Just outside the door, she stopped and leaned her back against the railing, and just as she had suspected, Daryl emerged a few seconds later, his head down; the door squeaked shut behind him. He jumped, startled, when he saw her.

"Shit!" he muttered, breathing a sigh of relief. "I thought you were gonna be dramatic and make me chase you down."

"No. I want to talk to someone. And judging by the fact that you followed me out here, you either are curious enough or care enough to listen. So you'll do," she half smiled. Aside from Hershel and (sometimes) Maggie, Daryl's advice mattered more to her than anyone else's. She honestly did not know which of the two (curiosity or concern) had captivated his attention- his expression was unreadable- but she was glad to have it, nonetheless.

"Why ain't you happy to see your dad?" he asked. Mila had known she could count on him to be direct.

"Walk and talk?" she suggested. He gave a quick nod to signal his consent, and she rocked her weight forward off the railing and started down the steps. "It's kind of a long story," she began. "There's something I never told you, and by you I mean anyone in this group. I was with Dad and my little sister, Jody, when this whole thing started." She winced a little upon the mention of her sister's name. "We were camping in the woods one night, maybe three weeks after the emergency broadcasts stopped. These people found us. Four guys. They told us to give up our weapons. They had the upper hand, you know? They'd already drawn and were ready for us before we heard them."

Daryl listened quietly, his face still void of emotion.

"We were all scared. But Dad thought it was best to surrender. . . . I don't know what he thought was gonna happen. . . . Once they had all the guns and knives we had on us, they didn't stop and talk peacefully. Those men were the worst kind of wicked, degenerate, base scum that plagues what's left of the human race. . . . They raped my sister and me. . . . She was only sixteen. And they made my dad watch. Held a gun to his head."

She had slowed to a stop halfway to the fields. Her countenance had darkened. A distinct wrinkle had formed between her eyebrows and her lips curled at the edges mirroring something between disgust and horror. She stood quietly for a minute with her arms folded in front of her chest as a chill ran down her spine. Daryl finally spoke, breaking her from her reverie and disrupting the terrible images flowing into her mind.

"I know," he said quietly.

Mila's olive-colored eyes shot up at him; there were tears in them but none of them fell to her cheeks and her voice did not quiver. "How?"

"Remember that guy everyone was lookin' for a couple hours after you got to the farm?" She nodded. "He was part of some big group. We were tryin' to find out what we were dealin' with. And he started runnin' his mouth about them findin' two girls and their dad at a campsite. Said what happened. Then, right before he shot at me, your dad said he shouldn't have had to watch his girls be tortured. I put it together when you told me who he was."

Mila cleared her throat, hoping to dislodge the lump that had formed there. Daryl studied her face somberly, his eyes trailing over even the most minute details.

". . . That don't explain why you ain't glad he's here," he said softly.

"Because I left him behind. For a reason." Mila swallowed hard, the lump constricting inside her neck uncomfortably. "We decided to hunt them down. We were gonna kill them. We found them a day or so later and watched them for several days. They had the numbers, but not when a small group of them would leave to scavenge. They could be manageable, so long as we had the element of surprise. We made a plan, but, when we were about to do it, he just lost control. Didn't stick to it. . . ." Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes. "It's what got Jody killed. . . . I don't want him getting someone else killed. Hell, he almost did! He tried to shoot you before he even knew who you were."

She thought about explaining why she had even offered to bring him to the prison, considering what she had just said with regards to her father's past indiscretions, but, as she searched Daryl's eyes, she found a spark of empathy. She knew he understood. Hosea might be a loose cannon- someone dangerous to bring around the people she cared for- but so was Merle. And he had done the same thing for him after finding him in Woodbury.

They stood in silence for a while; the only sounds they could hear were the incessant moans of the dead and the clinking chain link as they clung to the fences. Daryl drew in a deep, exhausted breath littered with the traces of bitter memories.

"It didn't happen," he shook his head and started to chew the inside of his bottom lip. "Sometimes bad people do good things, and sometimes good people do bad things." He glanced down before meeting her eyes again. "Just 'cause he's made some mistakes, it don't make him bad. He's got a chance here. To turn it around." His arm crossed in front of his chest as he reached forward tentatively and laid his hand on Mila's shoulder. "Let 'im."

Mila hesitated, a serious expression painting her face, and gave a swift nod. Daryl's sharp, blue eyes pierced her green ones for a moment that lasted for ages. He gave her shoulder a small pat and turned to go back to his bed, looking back briefly as he opened the door to C Block.


	6. While You Slept

Hosea's eyes fluttered open. The pastel sheets, shielding the room from the glare of the morning light, painted the room a warm, golden hue, the shadows of the door's bars standing out as crooked silhouettes against the printed shrouds. The old springs of the thin mattress whined in protest as he rolled forward to sit up. He grimaced, winding a hand behind himself to support his lower back which ached a little more than usual. He rubbed his temples with the other. He had a headache to add to his list of maladies as well. He knew that he had slept much longer than usual, but for some reason he was not at all well-rested. Perhaps it had been something that he had dreamed.

He rose slowly from the bed, suddenly aware of every joint in his body. He managed to stand erect after a moment's pause and shamble towards the writing desk on the other side of the cell. Wiping his eyes, he studied the collection of papers that were stacked and sorted neatly along its surface, carefully placing them aside as he scrutinized each one. The top few papers held realistic, detailed pictures of dogs, birds, and horses, making Hosea smile nostalgically at his child's infatuation with animals. On the papers in the middle of the stack were sketches of various parts of the prison, like the rations tent, the guard tower, and the door to C Block. As he reached the lowest papers, he found that her drawings had become meticulously perfect. And every drawing near the bottom of the stack was of a person that she knew: Rick, an Asian boy holding hands with a short-haired girl, Carol, an older, white-haired man, a young, light-haired girl, Carl, the baby, two of the man who had found him the day before, and, on the very last page, Jody.

Hosea held the last picture for a long while, turning his torso towards the back wall so that the golden cast of light illuminated it. In the drawing, she was holding a dandelion in her right hand and looking over her shoulder. Her expression was peaceful, if a little bit inquisitive, her lips slightly parted. Her hair was braided the same way that she had always braided it before she went to sleep at night, but it had fallen out by her temples where the hair was too short to remain secure. Hosea's lips trembled as he beheld her eyes which were so bright and full of life. Mila had flawlessly captured her sister's likeness, and here, frozen between the four corners of the page, she was still alive.

He collected himself, exhaling a sorrowful sigh, and quietly returned the papers to their respective places, handling the portrait of Jody with a reverent degree of care.

Mila was sound asleep on the top bunk he noticed as he turned around. Her back was to him, but the slow, deep breaths she took proved as much.

Hosea instinctfully reached to his hip for his revolver which he quickly remembered was holstered in his belt on the nightstand when the cell door creaked open loudly. Mila shifted in the bed, her arm drifting up lazily to cover her face. The white-haired, white-bearded man from one of the drawings peeked his head from behind the makeshift curtains.

"Good morning," he said in a low voice. He pointed to the top bunk. "I see she's not up yet." He chuckled. "That's okay. I came to get you, actually. My name is Hershel. I was told yours is Hosea."

"What do you wish of me?" Hosea asked curiously.

"I know you're just settling in, but I would like to get to know you so that maybe we could put some of your skills to use when the time comes, whatever they may be."

"I see," Hosea said, gazing at the floor. "Very well."

"Shall we?" Hershel beckoned with a smile.


	7. What Was and What Is

Mila rolled over onto her stomach and stretched her arms. She wondered what time it was; judging by the angle at which the light poured in, it had to be noon at the earliest. Her eyes drifted around her room lethargically. She did not want to get up, but finally decided that it was past time. Sluggish, she sat up and scooted towards the edge of the top bunk, allowing the weight of her legs to slowly drag her off of the bed as she slid to the floor. She opened the drawer to the filing cabinet which held her neatly folded changes of clothing and rifled through the middle drawer, selecting a forest green, zippered hoodie and burgundy tank top and clean underwear. Her hand reached for the handle of the bottom drawer to pull out a pair of jeans but she withdrew it; it would just be something else to wash and the jeans she had worn yesterday were not too dirty. Turning back to the bed, she rolled up the clothes in the pants she was going to put back on and headed to the showers.

She turned on the water, recoiling at the cold jet that bombarded her shoulder; though they had managed to get the plumbing of the prison working, there was no hot water to enjoy. Detesting the cold, Mila hurriedly washed and rinsed. Before, she used to take hour-long showers thinking and daydreaming, but not anymore. Bathing was something she had to endure rather than enjoy.

She dried herself off with the towel that she had laid across a stool and dressed herself; it was time she found Hershel. She had not helped him in about three days.

Outside the prison, she saw the horse corral. Flame was not there, but it was not empty. Eli and Inky stood relaxed in the warm sunlight. Mila smiled. _It's been a long time_ , she thought to herself, walking towards them. They reacted very little when she approached them, allowing her to pet them before she began her inspection of them.

She began with Inky. The last time she had seen him, he had multiple grass cracks in his hooves, but now there were none. With a hoof pick in hand, she pushed against him as she held his front, left pastern and he obediently lifted his leg. Expecting to find an accumulation of debris, she stopped, stunned, that it was almost completely clean. Skeptical, she checked every hoof on both horses but could find nothing to complain about on either one. She stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. Though they had undoubtedly been ridden every day since Hosea had been on his own, their bodies were in wonderful condition and their coats were shiny and well-kempt. Even their manes and tails had been given a noticeable amount of attention.

"They're beautiful horses," Maggie said, arms folded over one of the posts.

Mila turned to her with a grateful smile. "Thanks. Did you brush them today?"

"No. Your dad did."

Mila raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Really? I guess you met him then."

"Yeah. He was out here this mornin'," she said, nodding.

Mila faced the animals again. "He never brushes them just because he can," she half-whispered. "Did he pick their hooves, too?" she asked. Maggie shrugged.

"I guess so. No one else has been out here with them."

"Hm." Mila leaned against the fence next to Maggie, turning so that she faced outside the corral, deciding to take the conversation in another direction. ". . . Do you miss your horses?"

"Yeah. But it's good to have some others around. I used to ride all the time, you know. Beth and- every once in a while- Dad rode with me. We used to love goin' on long trail rides in the fall when it was cool outside."

Mila dipped her chin. She remembered reveling in those same things; Hosea, Jody, and she used to make it a point to ride together at least five times before Christmas. "We did, too. And we used to ride in the Christmas parade in town every year. Held horsemanship clinics. Did our own rodeos. . . . People came from hours away to be part of them," she finished happily as she reminisced.

Maggie grinned and tilted her head. "Sounds like your family was really into it. Is that why you know so much about horse trainin'? Bein' around 'em all the time?" Mila nodded in response. "You know, you've never really talked about your family much. What you did Before. So what was it like?"

"Well, our mom wasn't always around," Mila frowned, "She kind of bounced in and out of our lives on a whim. Dad always let her. She'd be gone halfway across the country for weeks at a time with other men. But anytime she showed back up, he let her stay," she said with a sigh. "Sometimes he'd stay home and make her breakfast. The works. He always took care of her."

Maggie's smile had faded upon hearing the sad description of Mila's family. " _Our_ mom?" Maggie questioned hesitantly, conscientious of the threat of opening up painful memories. Mila met her eyes.

"I had a sister. She died. After." Her expression was sober.

"I'm sorry," Maggie replied quietly.

"Thanks. . . . Her name was Jody." Mila watched the horses for a moment, realizing how little she had talked to anyone in the group of the time Before. Granted, their lives had been busy and tiresome since she had met them, but she wondered if the lack of communication concerning those days said something about her ability to connect with them. "She was a lot younger than me. About ten years. I'm not even sure if she was really Dad's. Like I said, Mom was gone a lot with other men. But when she found out she was pregnant, she stayed with us until Jody was born, and, once she was eating baby food, she was gone again. She left her with us." Maggie listened without interrupting. "Dad raised her by himself, except for when Mom would pop in."

"He sounds like a good man," Maggie suggested.

Mila stared pensively into the woods beyond the fence behind Maggie. "Yeah. Sounds like . . ." she trailed off without betraying her skepticism of the claim. "Hey, I came out here looking for your dad," she said, snapping back into reality.

"Well, last I knew, he was in D Block."

Mila exited the corral, latching the gate behind her. "Thanks," she said before ambling away.


	8. Confession

The door to D Block gave with a loud groan as Mila pushed it open. Down the hall, she could hear Hershel speaking with Caleb. She waited patiently a few feet away and cleared her throat when their conversation lulled. "Hershel, I was wondering if you might want my help with anything today."

Hershel acknowledged her with a glance before turning back to his colleague for a moment to bid him farewell and hobbled towards Mila on his steel crutch. She thought to herself how nice it would be if he had a prosthesis.

"Today?" he chuckled. "Today is almost over." Mila studied the lines on his face, and she could tell that he was unhappy; though he had laughed, he was not smiling.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I was up late last night."

"Yes, I know. Your father told me as much. You've been busy being a night watchman." Hershel's usually jovial voice was sprinkled with a heavy criticism that made her stare at her boots and blush in humiliation. She had lied about taking a turn standing guard, and he knew it. He was the one person that she hated to disappoint. "I hear you've also been busy outside the walls."

At that, Mila's gaze shot up to meet his. "If I hadn't been out there, my dad would have killed Daryl or Daryl would have killed him!" she protested.

"Mila," he said her name with a particularly high level of earnestness. "It's dangerous out there. It's good that you found your dad yesterday and I know that you want to make sure that Daryl stays safe, but people are always going to need a doctor. You've got a responsibility to them because of that. What you can do matters; it's valuable. And you've become like one of my own daughters. I'm not sure if you realize that your own father could have killed you yesterday, and it would have been a pure accident if he had. You have to be careful. And it's best that when you go out, you don't go out alone."

Mila sighed, defeated, and nodded. "Hershel, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about. It's my dad. Have you . . . talked to him?"

"Yes. I spent most of the day with him."

"Did he tell you anything about what happened before I met you? . . . Did he tell you about Jody? About what happened to her?"

""Yes, he did. Is it her that you want to talk about or him?"

"Him. . . . What _exactly_ did he tell you?" She asked, narrowing her eyes.

"That is between Hosea and me. You just tell me what's on your mind." Mila admired his fortitude concerning matters discussed in confidence. Hosea had once told her to pay attention to how people spoke of others because they would speak of her in a likewise manner when she was not around. With that bit of wisdom in mind, she knew she could trust Hershel with whatever she told him.

"I guess he did tell you about that night those men came to our camp. What they did." Hershel said nothing, but his face displayed no sign of any confusion or curiosity. Hosea must have told him. "We were going to find them," Mila continued, "and we did. We were going to start picking them off while they were away from their main group. When we got our chance, they were about a mile away from the others. It was three of the four that we were looking for. . . . We were supposed to stay hidden and kill them from a distance, but he didn't. He shot one. Then he had them drop their weapons like they did to us that night. He was going to make it slow.

"There was another one with them. One we hadn't seen. He came up behind Jody and me, pointing his gun. Then he took ours and had Jody and me stand with him. She was right in front of him, a gun to her head. He walked out. Showed Dad he had us. Told him to drop his weapon; he still had it on the other two.

"Everything after that happened in slow motion. . . . What he did was so stupid. . . . Dad turned to shoot the guy that had us. He hit him, but it was in the shoulder and when his shoulder jerked back, he pulled the trigger. He shot again and hit him in the head on the second time. Then he turned back around to the other two. Shot both of them in the gut. Pulled out his knife. Started stabbing them.  
"He didn't even look at her until after they were unrecognizable. He was just . . . unhinged. . . . That night, after we buried her, I told him I was going to get some water from the creek nearby. And, when I got there, I just kept walking." Mila breathed a weary sigh. "I'm not even sure if he knows that I just left him. Daryl said that here he has a chance to make things right. Maggie said that he sounds like a good man. But I watched him get in a tight spot and get someone I loved killed. And after, he was like a hollow shell of my dad. The look in his eyes was cold. Distant. He never shed a tear. And he never said a word. . . . He scared me, Hershel. And I'd love to give him a chance to be good again, but not at the expense of another person that I love. And I don't know if I want to forgive him. And even if I can and I do, I don't know how to explain walking away from him like that."

Hershel had been completely still and attentive for the duration of her account. His brow had slightly knitted towards the end when she confessed her emotions concerning the problem that she faced. Mila studied his face as he contemplated all that she had said and considered his response.

"Look around you, Mila," he said. "This prison has walls and good people. Daryl was right; your father has a chance to be good again here. The world has always been an ugly place; it didn't get that way when the dead started walking. It has a way of twisting people. Evil is always at the door. But your father's not evil; he's a man who nearly lost _both_ of his daughters because of his mistakes. _And he knows that_. . . . 'And be ye kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.' You owe him your forgiveness because Christ forgave you. So long as you follow Him, your forgiveness is not yours to withhold.

"He knows that you left him, and he knows why. He said he doesn't blame you. But you should speak with him honestly about what happened. You can't avoid it forever. But you should do that once you've made up your mind to forgive him and listen to him. That's my advice." His words were firm but gentle. Mila nodded, looking at her shoes again.

"Thanks, Hershel. This means a lot." Putting her hands in her pockets, she shuffled out of D Block back towards her cell.


	9. One Voice

Being late evening, the inhabitants of the prison were shuffling into C Block a few at a time. They had begun to settle in on the steel stools around various tables in the room where they ate together, having taken their dinners of stewed vegetables from the large, communal pot on the wire-framed table in the corner. They listened to their own disharmonious symphony of clinking spoons scratching against bowls without speaking. Beth's eyes began searching the room from one of the center seats sheepishly, a modest smile lighting her countenance, and everyone looked up as she began to sing.

"This is the sound of one voice,  
One spirit, one voice.  
The sound of one who makes a choice;  
This is the sound of one voice."

Her alto voice lilted through the melody like a leaf carried on the wind with a clarity of tone that seemed unparalleled by any other in the world, Before and After. Mila, who was sitting at an adjacent table, listened intently, realizing that she recognized the lyrics. Beth looked as if she was unsure as to whether or not she should continue, but her eyes met Mila's in a moment of unspoken edification. With her confidence bolstered, she sang the next verse a little louder as Mila joined in chorus.

"This is the sound of voices two;  
The sound of me singing with you-"

Hershel had only just hobbled in on his steel crutch and taken a set near Hosea. He glanced at his fellow father who was enthralled in the canticle of their daughters and grinned. Mila had taken the tenor harmony. Her voice had a dark, full tonality, and, while, by itself, it was not quite as pleasant to listen to as Beth's, it blended perfectly with the melody, melding it into a rich attunement.

Daryl observed the impromptu concert from the doorway of the room, his shoulder supporting him against its frame, his hands holding his bowl and spoon ever so still. He thought to himself how he had never heard anything quite so beautiful and pure. The lyrics were extraordinarily simple, but somehow they were equally meaningful and heartfelt. He quickly found himself lost in the rendition.

"- Helping each other to make it through,  
This is the sound of voices two."

Gina, the Woodbury refugee who had given Mila her bedsheet curtains, aided in the third verse, hitting the harmonic soprano notes articulately.

"This is the sound of voices three,  
Singing together in harmony.  
Surrendering to the mystery,  
This is the sound of voices three."

Maggie laid her bowl in her lap quietly and gently intertwined her fingers with Glenn's as she rested her head on his shoulder. She could not imagine a more peaceful moment in time. Pride for her what her sister had effected in the crowd welled up in her. She softly sang the melody to herself with Beth as her husband watched her with adoration.

Carl gently bounced Judith in his lap to the slow rythym. He wished his mother had been here to sing lullabies to her. He cast a wistful glance at the ceiling, hoping that wherever she was, she might be singing, too.

"This is the sound of all of us-"

Carol debated as to whether or not she should allow herself to be absorbed into the hyper-emotional atmosphere that she felt was engulfing the room. Her child was not here to hear the singing. She would never again enjoy the company of friends or the warmth of life. Carol's chin dipped down bitterly. It was not the sound of 'all of us'- just the sound of those who had made it this far. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and turned away, stirring the stew coldly.

"-Singing with love and the will to trust.  
Leave the rest behind it will turn to dust,  
This is the sound of all of us."

Rick was not a sentimentalist, but he felt grateful for the small stretch of time in which his people were given a reprieve from their daily hardships. They needed this moment of unity, a time to reflect on what had been gained, not just what had been lost. He swirled his spoon in his stew serenely and breathed a small sigh of hard-won contentment before taking the next bite.

"This is the sound of one voice,  
One people, one voice.  
A song for every one of us,  
This is the sound of one voice.  
This is the sound of one voice!"

The song came to an unequivocal conclusion, the last line delivered in a tempo that had been a bene placito, but the room remained silent. The three main vocalists smiled affectionately at one another before returning to their meals buoyantly, satisfied that if even for just a few moments, everyone within earshot had been spiritually joined to one another.

 **Note: Well, this is the first (and possibly only) time that I have shadowed what's going on in the minds of anyone other than my OCs. (By the way, there's still a lot to be said between Hosea and Mila.) The song is by The Wailin' Jennys, and the title of the chapter is the title of the song. This one was written as if a camera panning around the room pauses to zoom in on one individual at a time.**

 **Inspirations for the character's reactions came from various places. For Hershel, it was the sheer sense of love for the girls who started the song. Daryl's coverage was done after the duet because of the relationships that he has with Beth and Mila (along with Carol, they are the females he is/gets closest to). I thought of the scene in the show when Carol talks to Daryl in season 5 just after Beth died, telling him that he 'needs to let himself feel it' and that she can't for the same reason that he must. That's where I drew his reaction and Carol's. Carol is steadily learning to be callous so that she can keep going. I wanted to give credence to that. Maggie got a coverage because of her special relationships with her 'sisters'. Carl is still dealing with the aftermath of losing his mom, and he's growing up by being responsible for Judith and experiencing a wider range of mature emotions. While Rick is 'taking a break', he is still unequivocally the leader of the group, so his coverage attempts to illustrate that, especially by being done after the 'sound of all of us' line is delivered.**

 **I actually had a lot of fun writing this one, and it just kind of spilled out into the page. I hope you liked it. Let me know what you think!**


	10. Going, Too

Mila weaved between the people standing to leave and blocking her way to the doorway where Daryl had been standing, careful to flank the seat where Hosea still sat glancing up at her. She wanted to be sure to catch him before he disappeared to whatever secluded hole he must have made to keep himself unspotted when he grew tired of their incessant company. Bumping into her fellow survivors in the crowded room slowed her down, evoking a series of hasty exchanges of apologies.

"Daryl!" she called, rounding the corner. He slowed from his saunter, pausing long enough to look back at her, one hand in his pants pocket. "Wait. I wanted to ask you something." He chewed his lip, swaying back and forth from one side to another. "When is your next run?"

"Tomorrow. You need somethin'?" he asked in a low voice.

"Well, actually I was wondering if I could come." Mila noticed his brow twitch into a frown. "You could think of me as a field medic," she defended quickly. "I still want experience out there. And I was talking to Hershel earlier. He said that if I was gonna go out, I should go with other people; that way I'm safer." Daryl's expression had not changed much, and she was unsure if she was making any headway in convincing him to let her tag along. ". . . If we come across medicine, I can help us pick out whatever would be useful. . . ." she added quietly.

An irritated sigh escaped Daryl's lips. "We're leavin' when the sun comes up. You ain't ready, you're gettin' left." A giddy grin spread across Mila's face and Daryl's hardened in response. "You can come if you wanna. But if you're gonna go, ain't gone be no damn jumpin' out from behind trees at people shootin' at us. An' you gotta do what you're told. Things go sideways-"

"I got it. I'll stay in sight, _Mom_ ," she said excitedly, folding her arms in front of her chest.

"Stop," Daryl growled as he turned to stroll away, shoulders swaying with his usual swagger.

 **Note: With ten chapters, it's time for walkers to break us from any monotony of following character drama. We've only seen one so far! Buckle up, guys!**


	11. First Official Run

_She was trapped. The decaying hands of the dead pounded on the other side of the door as she struggled to hold it closed with the weight of her body. She'd never get out alive. The rest of the group had surely left her by now. She was going to die in this rat-box of a room alone. Her breathing grew rapid. Her heart pounded so hard that she thought her fingertips might explode from the pressure of the blood rushing to her extremities. She bounced against the door as they began to out-power her. The crack in the threshold got wider and wider. They were getting in. Her feet slid on the hardwood floor as the door opened, crushing her against the wall and knocking the air out of her lungs. One of the corpses turned, seeing her once inside the room. Its sunken eyes were set ablaze by the sight of her. From behind its thirty-two bloodstained teeth a snarl sounded- now the others knew: a meal stood cowering in the corner, pressed against the wall like a long pork sandwich._

Mila snapped upright, sweat drenching her chest and forehead. It had been a long time since she had had a nightmare; maybe since before they had taken refuge in the prison. She kicked the sheets off of her legs, hoping to alleviate some of the feverish heat that stifled her. She held her head in her shaking hands until her heart rate and breathing returned to normal. _It was just a dream_ , she told herself.

She slid off of the top bunk, quietly landing on her toes so that she would not wake Hosea. She stepped in close to check on him; it was obvious by the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest that he was sound asleep. She was glad that he had not tried to speak with her the night before. Maybe Hershel intervened and told him to give her some space, or maybe she was just too obvious in her attempts to avoid him.

She dressed herself quickly and pulled her red Ozark Trail backpack from its place beneath the bed. She decided that it would be best kept light and only packed a couple of bottles of water, a flashlight, and a first aid kit in the middle, medium-sized zippered pocket. Along her belt, she fastened the holster for her silver Smith & Wesson and the sheath for her black-handled Bowie knife. Once she was confident that they were secured and satisfied with her provisions, she peeked out from behind her curtain-sheets.

She trudged down the stairs and outside. It was cool and rain misted down from the hazy, indigo sky; the sun had yet to rise above the horizon. She surveyed the yard. Parked to her left were the cars used for runs and Daryl's motorcycle. By the grey Impala, Glenn and Sasha were adding the last of their things to the backseat floorboard and Daryl was depositing a red gas can into its open trunk. With her pack slung over one shoulder, she ran to where the cars were parked.

The three looked up, having heard the sound of Mila's boots tapping on the pavement. "I was starting to wonder if you were gonna make it," said Sasha. "Did you oversleep?"

"No. I thought you guys were leaving when the sun was actually up," she explained, mildly confused.

"Nope," Sasha shook her head. "Gotta get an early start. One of the newcomers mentioned a strip mall about thirty miles out. That's where we're headed. There's no telling what's between here and there."

"Well. I'm glad I didn't miss the trip," she said, shooting Daryl a seething glance. He looked away, pretending not to notice, wiping his hands on the red rag that usually hung out of his back pocket. He lifted his crossbow off of the roof of the car as he approached the driver's seat.

"Let's go," he grunted. Mila rolled her eyes as she tossed her bag in with the others and took a seat in the rear, passenger side of the car. The engine revved as Daryl turned the key and put it in drive, and the chain link gates rattled open for their passage.

* * *

"Well, end of the line," Daryl said matter-of-factly as the car slowed to a halt in front of the pile up. "Looks like we're walkin' from here."

"About how far from here is that strip mall?" Mila asked, leaning between the two front seats to inspect the collided vehicles.

"'Bout four miles," he answered gruffly, motioning for Glenn to hand him his crossbow.

Daryl, Glenn, and Sasha exited the car simultaneously and started grabbing their gear; Mila got out a few seconds later, realizing that she was being left behind again. Once everything they needed had been removed from the car, Daryl locked the doors and pocketed the key.

"Let's check these cars on the way back through," he said, squinting and glancing into the windows as he weaved through the wreckage. Mila checked the chamber of her pistol and made sure that the safety was on; she did not want any gun safety slip ups on her first official run. She shortened the straps of her backpack so that it did not sag so low on her back. It would make it a little harder for her to be grabbed this way. "Keep up!" Daryl ordered. Her comrades had all stopped, looking back at her now. Embarrassed, she jogged to reach them, one hand on the hilt her knife.

"Sorry," she muttered. Daryl shook his head impatiently and marched away, Sasha on his heels.

"You can stick by me," Glenn said with a soft smile. It must have been obvious to him that she was feeling out of place and unsure of herself. She smiled in return, blushing.

"Thanks, Glenn. I'll do that."

The two of them hung back from the others without speaking further. A twig snapped in the edge of the woods, and Mila's hands shot to her knife, eyes wide and wild as she searched for the source of the sound. Glenn, Daryl, and Sasha scanned the tree line calmly.

"It's just one of 'em," Daryl stated as it staggered into view.

"I'll get it," volunteered Mila.

"I'll help you," offered Glenn. She could not help but wonder if it was because he thought she could not handle it. Mila consented with a quick nod anyway and started towards the body, taking in the sight of it. It snapped and snarled as it shuffled closer. It had once been a young woman. She wore a tattered white shirt that hung loose over her shoulders and gathered again at her hips by an elastic border. The collar was lined with a thin, twisted rope and its tassels swung between her breasts. Her auburn hair clumped in lifeless locks around her face. But what was more noticeable than anything else was her lipless mouth in which her large, yellowing teeth laid exposed, lining her gums like tombstones in a graveyard.

Mila unbuttoned the snap that held her knife in its place and pulled it carefully from its sheath. Glenn walked around the walker's right side, eyeing Mila as her lip curled in disgust. She grabbed it by its throat, pushing it back, off balance, and plunged the blade through its eye. It's hissing ceased and it crumpled into a lifeless heap on the ground. Mila took a step back and exhaled before a proud grin spread across her face. She looked at Glenn, who smiled back, and then at Daryl, but he was already ambling away. She wondered if he had even seen it. Her pride sank back down into the pit of her stomach as she pursed her lips and put the knife away.

At this rate, it was going to be a long walk.

 **Note: It's always bad news bears when someone has a nightmare before a big mission.**


	12. The Clinic

"This must be it," said Sasha, gazing upon the stores in front of them.

"Yep," came Daryl's brief reply. "Sounds pretty quiet out there. Everybody stay close. And pay attention," he said, glancing at Mila.

They all started towards the buildings, hands on their knives. Between them and their target was what seemed like an endless expanse of a parking lot littered with leaves and bits of paper that stuck to the wet asphalt like a tissue paper mosaic. They would be exposed and vulnerable if they were caught there by walkers- or worse, people. Along the face of the mall were ten concrete pillars that supported the red and green roofs of the stores. The mall itself was comprised of a hardware store, a couple of clothing stores, a small coffee shop, and, at its far corner, a tiny veterinary clinic. The latter caught Mila's eye; if she was ever going to have a chance to be useful, this was it.

"Guys," she called in a hushed voice. "That clinic- there's bound to be medicine we can use in there! Some of the same medicine used on animals is used for people. And not just anyone knows what to look for!"

They acknowledged her by meeting her eyes. "We can hit it on the way out," Sasha decided skeptically.

"No, we should go there first," Mila said. Sasha looked surprised that she had suggested an alternative plan after she felt that the matter had been settled. "Look, most of what we'll find to bring back in there won't weigh much, so if we get in a tight early on we won't be too weighed down to run. And as long as it's locked up, there's probably no dead ones in there because most people wouldn't have thought go in there in the first place. . . ." Her eyes darted between her companions', pleading.

Daryl nodded first. "It's a good plan. You pick out what we can use." Mila swallowed, trying to hide her satisfied smile, as they treaded closer to the buildings.

Upon reaching the door to the clinic, the tenseness of the party eased since that they were no longer out in the open. Daryl relaxed his grip on his crossbow, jiggled the handle to test whether or not it was locked, and knocked on the glass door loudly. "Give it a minute," he said, leaning against the painted cinderblock wall. He chewed his fingernails, cradling the bow in his free arm. Mila leaned against the wall next to him and Sasha and Glenn sat on the ground against a nearby pillar and began talking amongst themselves. Daryl looked over at her, his eyes trailing up and down her body, but looked away when she caught him.

"What?" she asked curiously.

"That was good thinkin'. Suggestin' we come here first." His blue eyes squinted as they skimmed over the road and woods beyond, aloof.

Mila raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "Is that a compliment?" she asked as she scrutinized his face for any telltale sign of affirmation. And she found it; the corner of his lip twitched into a short-lived smirk. "Wow. . . . You know that means a lot coming from you."

He paused, glancing down for a second before indulging his curiosity. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling as if the answer should have been apparent. "Because you're, like, the ultimate survivor," she elucidated with a jaunty grin. Before he could stop himself, a chortle escaped him, causing Mila to laugh. Daryl worked away on the inside of his lower lip, his temple twitching, while attempting to regain his stone-faced composure.

"Come on. I don't think there's nothin' in there." He pushed himself away from the wall, laying his gloved hand on the bar the stretched across the door to open it. "You ready?" Sasha and Glenn rose to their feet and lined up behind him, prepared for anything in case things were not as quiet in the clinic as they anticipated. "Let's do this," Daryl said, crossbow raised, as he pulled the handle open.

They entered the building, stepping into what had been the sky blue waiting room. Other than the collecting sediment of dust, it was almost immaculate. Six thinly padded chairs bordered the walls of the room. Prescription Diet dog and cat food, including that used for glucose management, kidney care, and skin sensitivities, sat neatly arranged on shelves lining the right wall; on a neighboring, smaller shelf were their canned counterparts. To the left was a wall full of pamphlets in clear, plastic file holders issued by pharmaceutical companies with information on various maladies like heartworms, intestinal worms, and the like, and straight ahead was a cut-out counter through which a limited view of the office could be seen from the waiting area. A white, wooden door beside it separated them from the rest of the potential gold mine.

Each member of the group readied their flashlights and Daryl grabbed the doorknob, turning it with a nod. It led to a thin hallway of with four, unlabeled doors (one to the office). Mila pointed to the first one, suspecting that it might be either an exam room or drug room. Sasha stood back, wordlessly standing guard at the exit.

Mila had been right; it was an exam room. Glenn and Daryl cleared it quickly and moved on to check the others while she looted it for useful items. She opened the cabinets along the wall and grinned to herself, energetically unzipping her bag to fill it with her newfound spoils.

"No walkers," Daryl announced, walking back to her. "Next room's got a lot of meds. You havin' any luck in here?"

"Definitely! Look! Depo Medrol, bandages, nitrofurazone, a stethoscope, an otoscope!" She held out her findings for him to see as she rattled them off. "This place must have gone completely untouched!" she exclaimed, turning back to rifle through the cabinets again.

"The stuff in here ain't no good?" Daryl asked, peering into the mini fridge in the corner.

"Most likely not. I wouldn't bother with it at this point." He closed the door to the fridge gently and, leaning against the steel exam table, turned to watch Mila as she scrambled to gather anything she deemed useful. Zipping the backpack, she swung its straps over her shoulders jubilantly. "Next room?" she chirped, a look of glee painting her face.

Daryl stepped aside and gestured for her to walk past him. She entered the drug room and quickly surveyed the shelves, choosing rolls self-adherent wraps, syringes, and a variety of topical creams and half-full pill bottles that rattled like maracas as she tossed them into her bag. Glenn emerged from the back of the building and joined Daryl in the doorway. "What was in the last two rooms?" Mila asked as she made her final selections.

"Oh," Glenn blinked, surprised that she had noticed his return amid her rummaging. "One's got scalpels and needles and stuff. I guess it was where they did surgeries. I figured you might want to look for yourself. The other one was nothing but cages."

"Scalpels and are good to have around," Mila quipped. "Did you see any catgut or steel wire?"

". . . Catgut?" Glenn asked, shaking his head.

"Yeah. It's suture material. It probably would have been in a flat, plastic, square box."

"Yeah, actually. It was by the sink."

"What about the key to the locked drawer or cabinet?"

Glenn's brows scrunched in puzzlement. "How did you know there was a locked cabinet?"

"Because that's probably where the euthanasia solution is. Its- it _was_ \- against the law to leave it easily accessible. The anesthesia is probably locked up with it."

"Oh. Well, no. I didn't find the key. It's a latch and padlock. I could check the office for it," he offered.

"Nah," Daryl finally spoke. "We'll just break the latch. 'S quicker that way." Glenn shrugged as Daryl made his way into the next room.

The door to the locked cupboard was sealed with a padlocked hasp as Glenn had said, and Daryl inspected it before digging a flathead screwdriver out of his pack and wedging it deeply between the polished wood and old metal. He worked at the latch for several minutes, and the metal began to fold over on itself before the screws that held it in place finally gave way, splintering the wood in their wake. Mila applauded his resourcefulness in bringing the screwdriver with him; she had not thought of how useful one could be as a multi-tool. He gave her a nod and stepped back so that she could clearly see what was inside. Sure enough, there was anesthesia, lactated ringers, and pentobarbitol. She wrapped the delicate glass bottles in paper towels and tucked them away snugly into her bag and added the sharp surgical instruments to the first aid kit. She zipped the pockets and stood, swinging the bag over her shoulders; it was much heavier now.

"I think we're done here," she concluded looking between her companions.

Daryl nodded in approval. "Alrigh'. Let's hit the hardware store."


	13. The Hardware Store

The group made its way to the hardware store along the sidewalk beneath the roofs of the buildings. Daryl and Glenn peered inside the windows through the boards that someone had hastily nailed to them as a fortification. Mila watched silently as Daryl banged his fist on the boards to draw out any walkers within and shifted the strap of the bag on her back with a frown; she was happy to have found so many useful things in the clinic but the auspicious haul had resulted in a pack that was more burdensome than expected.

Glenn settled against the wall next to her as they waited for the all-clear.

"You did good in there," he said with a smile. "That's a lot of stuff."

She looked down, smiling modestly. "Yeah. It is. I'm glad I could help. And I'm even more glad that we got so much."

They flinched at the sound of the thud of a walker hitting the glass behind them. Nine of its fellows followed suit, snarling at clawing at the company outside. The group watched them for several minutes. Mila bit her lip; they were outnumbered.

"Alrigh'," Daryl announced, getting her attention. "That's probably all of 'em." He started towards the double doors as the walkers followed him from the other side of the glass with their mouths gaping. Watching them, Mila could not help but think of the oscar fish at the pet store Before, of how they used to follow her finger as she traced it along the glass of their tanks.

"How are we gonna get in?" she asked, trying not to let her nervousness show.

Sasha lowered her backpack to the ground and unzipped its largest pocket to produce a crowbar which she handed to Daryl before readying her knife. "The way that door's locked, there's no way to let them out a few at a time. We're gonna need to stay close to each other, and don't let them get behind you," she instructed, eyes on the inexperienced runner. "Don't go to them; let them come to you."

Mila nodded subordinately and Daryl turned back to the doors, sticking the wedge of the wrecker into the crack between them. Glenn took his place on her left, putting her in one of the center positions. Her legs felt hollow as he pried the door open and two of them spilled out, nearly falling onto the sidewalk. The others stepped on their heels heedlessly, and, with throaty growls, they shambled towards the four companions.

Daryl and Sasha lunged forward, sinking their blades into the skulls of the first two and, in one fluid motion, ripped them out, blood trailing through the air behind the tips of their knives. The third snapped its foreboding teeth at Glenn, who responded with a swift stab to its head. Mila turned her attention to the one heading towards her, its leg angled in an awkward direction as it shuffled towards her. It stumbled and tripped over the body that Glenn had felled, landing at Mila's feet with its arms outreached. She kicked free from its grip around her ankle with a muffled squeal and bent to shove her dagger through its temple. Glenn glanced at her as he dropped another walker, but was quickly diverted by another that snaked its arms around his shoulders. Grabbing it by the neck, he attempted to throw it to the ground but fell with it, landing on top of it.

For only a heartbeat, Mila watched in horror as the oversized creature grappled at her friend, its eyes and mouth wide and ravenous and only inches from his. With the combined forces of gravity its relentless grip, the struggle would prove too much for Glenn. Sasha threw a corpse to the ground and sprang into action, dispatching it in less than a second. Daryl jumped in front of Mila, making short work of one that had made its way towards her while she was distracted. He shot her a hasty glare as he turned to take down another, and she blinked in surprise and shook her head. Sasha extended her hand, pulling Glenn to his feet. With her lip curled, Mila charged the next one, knocking it against the door as she slashed into its eye as Daryl finished off the last of them with a stomp of his boot. The four looked at the massacre around them.

Glenn was dusting himself off as Sasha gave him a pat on the back and walked inside. Following her, Daryl glowered at Mila in unspoken castigation of her hesitation and inattention before he began inspecting the half-raided aisles. Mila stared shame-faced at Glenn. "Are you okay?" she asked apologetically.

He laid a hand over her shoulder with a sober expression. "Yeah. I'm okay. Don't beat yourself up. This is your first run, and it happened quick. Just . . . try not to freeze up next time."

"I'm really sorry," she whispered. _He could have died, you idiot. You can't panic like that,_ she thought irately.

"Come on," he said with a sigh and half-hearted smile. "You can still stick by me."

They wandered the corridors wordlessly, still recovering from the intensity of what had just happened, but found very few things that could be useful. Unlike the clinic, people had apparently perceived the promise of what the hardware store contained; it had nearly been picked clean of anything that could be used as a weapon and had clearly been looted before by those trying to build a safe place. Together, Mila and Glenn managed to find a two boxes of three-inch nails, a shovel, several heavy chains, four padlocks, and Mila found a long, flathead screwdriver with a yellow handle that had rolled beneath one of the shelves. She tucked the screwdriver into her belt, remembering how Daryl had been able to use his as a small crowbar. What was left of the wood would have to wait until they could bring a truck to carry it. They met with Sasha near the center register.

"Find anything good?" she asked, eyes glazing over the shovel.

"Yeah. Some chains, locks, nails, and this," Glenn answered presenting the spade. "You?"

"A couple of flashlights. Some shirts. Seeds," she smiled, "- that's the best thing. For watermelons, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, radishes, and peas. I bet Hershel and Rick can put those to good use."

"What about Daryl?" Glenn asked.

As if to answer, they heard a whistle come from the back of the store. The three made their way towards him quickly and quietly. He pointed at the floor. Dried drops of blood trailed into the double doors where extra products were kept to stock the shelves when they ran low. He gingerly pushed against the door with one hand, crossbow raised in the other, but it would not open. Through the crack he had made, Mila could see a two by four barring the way.

"The door is boarded," she whispered. ". . . Should we call out?"

Daryl's jaw clenched as he thought, then he gave a succinct nod. Sasha and Glenn produced their guns, aiming them at the tiny opening between the doors, and Mila followed their lead, pulling her own gun from its holster on her right hip. Daryl banged on the door heavily. They heard someone shift inside; they must have been surprised by the sudden noise. "Come out!" he barked, bristling. Seconds ticked by.

"O-okay. . . ." came the uneasy reply. "Just take it easy. We're gonna open the door."


	14. The Find

The doors bounced back and forth as the wood barring them shut was pulled from the handles. Daryl, Glenn, Mila, and Sasha all took a few steps back so that they would not be within arm's reach when whoever it was that had barricaded themselves in came out. One of the doors eased open, and the three people they had protected slid through the threshold, hands raised by their shoulders.

They were young men, probably in their mid-twenties, standing about the same height. Glenn edged by them to check the room for others, gun raised, but reemerged a few minutes later with it lowered and stood to their side. The first to have come out had short, wavy brown hair and green eyes. He had a very 'college boy' appearance and an air of innocence that Mila could not fully understand; perhaps it was because of his full cheeks or maybe because of the fine, soft-looking hairs that clouded his upper lip like darkly-pigmented lanugo. Mila thought to herself how he had probably never had to shave before as she studied his clean-looking jaw. Underneath his jacket, she noticed a black T-shirt with the Dodge symbol plastered over his chest.

The boy to his right wore a gray hoodie with the sleeves rolled up at his elbows and had tawny hair that looked as if it had been windswept upwards into a short, spiky pompadour. The shadow of a beard and goatee masked his face beneath his broad nose and brown eyes. His face was pallid and he was sweating. The blood on the floor had come from him, as he held a torn, green cloth over his left forearm that had turned crimson from the blood it had soaked up. Although they were all white, the third was more darkly-complected than his fellows, having a distinctive tan. His most outstanding feature was his piercing blue eyes; white, threadlike lines extended from the outer edges of his irises towards the darker, gunmetal blue circles around his pupils. His hair was such a deep brown that Mila had first believed it was black before the frayed ends gave it away.

The one in the middle wearing the Dodge shirt spoke first. "I'm Zach. This is Josh-" he motioned towards the bleeder, "and Ant." They lowered their hands to their sides slowly.

"Ant is short for Anthony," said the blue-eyed one, looking nervously between Sasha, Mila, Glenn, and Daryl; his gaze lingered on the latter. Daryl lowered his crossbow, eyes still narrowed, so Sasha and Mila did the same.

Zach paused a moment before hastily speaking again. "Uuh, we were students at the University of Georgia before everything happened. We've been in here for a day, holding up, waiting on those things to get distracted long enough to stop banging on the door. I guess that it was you guys that distracted them."

"We killed them," Sasha said severely. "The front door was locked. There wasn't a back door. _How_ did you get in here?"

Zach pointed with his thumb towards the left of the building. "We busted out a window to get away from the ones on the road. We didn't know there were some already in here."

"'S that what happened to your arm?" questioned Daryl, pointing towards Josh's injury.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Show me," Mila ordered, trying to sound as authoritarian as possible. Josh blinked in surprise and pulled the towel away from the wound. Blood trickled slowly from its edges as the bandage peeled off. A long, straight laceration stretched from the crook of his elbow towards the distal end of his ulna. Mila strained her head to get a closer look; it was deep.

"I can't get it to stop bleeding," he said weakly.

"That's because it's gonna need stitches," she ruled.

Daryl looked at the crew of fraternity boys, studying each one of them deliberately before exhaling loudly through his nose. He glanced at Glenn who gave a small nod. "How many walkers have you killed?"

Zach's eyes darted between his companions. "I don't know. As many as it took to make it from Athens to here."

"How many people have you killed?"

Ant's mouth fell open as if he was offended by Daryl's question. "Look, man, we're not those kind of people. We haven't killed anyone."

"Why?"

"Because there's no reason to!" he acclaimed defensively. "Teeth-gnashers are everywhere, man. Better to spend up the energy and ammo on them!"

Daryl looked down at the floor and nodded, his temple working as he chewed his lip. "It's jus' you guys, righ'?" he drawled.

"Yeah," said Ant, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

"Why don't you come back with us? We got a camp. Lot's o' people. Food. Shelter. Water. And we could use some extra hands."

The boys glanced between each other quietly. "Can you help Josh?" asked Zach tentatively.

"I can help him right now," Mila offered.

"Wait." Glenn interrupted. "You said you were running from walkers on the road. Do you know where they are?"

"No. They were all over the road about half a mile back, but they should be gone by now. We had to cut through the woods and leave my car, which, by the way, we really need to go back and get. It's a new car and it's got a tank full of gas, ammo, and lots of food," he explained.

"Which way?" Daryl asked.

"North of here."

"That's out of the way," Sasha noted aloud, seeing the cogs in Daryl's mind spin.

Daryl raised a hand to his jaw and rubbed the wiry hairs on his chin. "How many were on the road?"

Ant answered this time. "Maybe twenty. Twenty-five at the most."

Daryl thought for a minute, still stroking his chin. "Alrigh'. You stay and patch him up," he said pointing at Mila. "Sasha, you stay with 'em. If we ain't back here in two hours, go on and start back to the prison. We'll catch up when we can." Sasha looked as if she was prepared to protest but Daryl leaned in close to her ear and whispered something. Mila thought she heard him say something about not leaving her alone which made her frown slightly. With a silent nod, Sasha turned back to face Josh.

"See you when you get back," Mila said, casting a worried look towards him and Glenn.

"See you then," Daryl replied, turning on his heel. With his finger, he signaled for Glenn and the two boys to follow him and they started out of the store. Sasha followed them to her post and stood watch at the front doors.


	15. Stitching

Mila lowered her backpack to the ground and told Josh to sit down. She knelt beside him, emptying the contents of the bag onto the tile flooring so that she could find the first aid kit and sutures. After removing about half of the meds, she found them and added them to the array of medical supplies on the ground. Josh looked at her provisions with interest.

"That's a lot of medicine," he commented. "Where'd you find all of it?"

"That veterinary clinic, just down the sidewalk from here; nobody had looted it," she answered nonchalantly, putting them back. "I've got lidocaine. I'm gonna deaden this first, then I'll clean it and start with the stitches." She picked up the vial and stuck the needle of a syringe through the rubber cap, drawing out the necessary dose.

"You don't look old enough to be a doctor," he remarked warmly.

"That's because I'm not. I was a second year veterinary student when everything fell apart."

"Is that how you knew what to get from the animal hospital?" he asked, wincing as she inserted the needle into his skin.

"Yep." She pricked his arm several times along the length of the wound. "Be still," she commanded with a frown as his arm twitched.

"Sorry. It's just . . . I never have liked shots."

"You'd like them a lot better if I started scrubbing this thing without them first," she responded dryly. Mila flinched, removing her hands quickly from the wound, when he started laughing.

"You're probably right about that," he sighed. She shook her head slightly, annoyed that he kept interrupting her work by moving. Daryl had told her to take care of him, and his incessant tweaking complicated the endeavor unnecessarily. After all, she still needed to redeem herself in whatever way she could for her mistake earlier that day with Glenn and the walker.

She scrubbed the wound with surgical sponges and hydrogen peroxide which fizzed considerably from between the edges of the cut. Next, she applied the nitrofurazone paste once she had the wound as dry as she could make it. The blood mixed with the bright yellow gel causing it to become a dirty orange color as she held up a sterilized needle so that she could see to thread it in the dim lighting of the store. She began by stitching the bleeding vein and continued at the end closest to his elbow but it was not long before he recoiled again after he looked to see what she was doing.

"Move again and this is going in your good arm," she said, holding up the needle threateningly with a glare.

"Sorry! Sorry! I shouldn't have tried to watch. It makes me really antsy to see that going into my own skin is all. It's not like I can feel it." With that, he looked away towards the windows at the side of the building where Zach had mentioned they broke in and breathed deeply through his nose.

Mila rolled her eyes. "Of _course_ you can't feel it, it's _deadened_ ," she mumbled, but he did not seem to hear her or, if he did, he ignored her. Mila sewed the laceration shut stitch by stitch, frowning at the slight pucker of skin around the last one. "I'm done," she announced, running a finger over the final stitch, dissatisfied with its appearance. Mila looked up from his arm to meet his eyes. He had been watching her thumb over it and had not moved while she did. She withdrew her hand quickly as if his arm had suddenly burned her, and he cast her a lopsided grin. There was little color in his cheeks due to the blood loss that he had suffered for the past day and he was still sweating. "I think you're fevered. This," she tapped his arm, "is probably already infected." From the arrangement of plastic bottles on the floor, she chose one that was much larger than the most of the others. "This is amoxicillin. Please tell me you're not allergic to penicillin." He shook his head. "Good. You're going to take a 500 mg capsule BID- that means twice a day," she added patronizingly as she dropped a purple and pink pill into his palm. He seemed unphased by her rudeness as he tilted his head back and popped the medicine down his throat with a cupped hand over his mouth.

"Thanks for this," he said with wide, puppy dog eyes. "You could be saving my life here."

"We've still got a long way to go before we're back home. Don't thank me yet," she said, leaving him with the bag of medicine as she walked towards the place where Sasha stood watch.

"Did you get him fixed up?" Sasha asked calmly, her arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the glass window.

"Yeah." Mila sighed through her nose, disappointed in herself for feeling the need to ask. "Sasha, if you don't mind, I have a favor to ask," she said, eyeing the lightly-burdened bag over her shoulder. Sasha said nothing in response, only making eye contact to acknowledge that she was listening. "My backpack. It's . . . a lot more full than I would have guessed. It's getting a little heavy. And, with us not knowing if we'll have to run when Daryl and Glenn get back, I was hoping that maybe I could give some things to you. . . ." Her voice trailed off, anxiously awaiting Sasha's reply.

"Well, I guess that whole 'whatever's in the clinic will be lightweight' argument was a bluff." Mila had wholly expected her response to be curt, considering that she had contested her original say of going into the hardware store first in favor of the clinic. A tinge of worry that she had come off as insolent had gnawed at the back of her mind since she had thought back to it. However, the response bore with it a good-natured tease, so Mila relaxed, relieved, and returned Sasha's small smile with her own.

"Yeah. Sorry if I sounded like I was trying to trump you out there. I wanted to do some good today."

"You did. That's a lot of meds. We wouldn't have known what to get without you here."

Mila looked at the floor bashfully. "Thanks. If you want me to, I'll just take your bag and sort it how I think is best." Sasha pushed herself off of the window with her hand and shrugged the backpack off of her shoulders, handing it over silently before turning back to face out the window.

"She's back," said Josh, still on the floor and leaning against one of the near-empty shelves. Mila ignored him and sank to her knees to organize all of the items from the clinic in front of her. She decided to keep the first aid kit in her bag since it was her personal one and also kept the majority of the pills and the otoscope and stethoscope, but moved the sutures, Fura-zone, bandage materials, syringes, and all of the liquid drugs to Sasha's bag, wrapping the bottles delicately into the T-shirts that she had picked up. The discarded paper towels that had once swaddled the bottles, she stuffed into as many pill bottles as possible to keep them from rattling so badly. The only one left on the floor was the amoxyl, which she tossed to Josh with a sidelong glance. She weighed the bags against one another, one in each hand. Although Sasha's now looked a bit bulkier, they were equally heavy. Smiling at her work, she shouldered hers and returned Sasha's.


	16. Escape

It was getting late, and Mila was getting more and more anxious as time passed. The car had not been far up the road, and they should have made their way back already. Josh, having regained some of his color and energy, had tried to converse with her several times throughout the day, but his efforts were met with laconic, unenthusiastic responses and he had recently given up. The parking lot was still buried under the ever-watchful heavy gaze of Sasha, and her younger companions had joined her near the entrance of the store.

"Where are they?" Mila breathed, a worrisome crinkle in her brow. Sasha squinted as she peered at the woods across the road and swore.

"What is it?" asked Josh twisting around to look out the windows behind him.

"Walkers. That must be the group you saw yesterday!" she said. Her voice was still, but her wide eyes betrayed her anxiety.

"If it is, it's bigger now," his voice rose in a nervous fashion.

Sasha breathed, closing her eyes. "It's okay. We just need to be quiet and still; they don't have to know we're here."

"But what about Daryl and Glenn! What if they come back and run into that crowd? That's got to be forty walkers!" Mila exclaimed as the last of them filtered out of the woods onto the road.

"Shh!" Sasha admonished. "They'll be alright. And hopefully they'll be on that car. No use worrying about that for now. There's nothing we can do but wait. You've got your stuff ready to go, right?"

Mila tugged at the straps of her pack, loosening them with a petulant pout. "Yeah," she said reluctantly.

Ten minutes later, the walkers were still shambling across the empty lot, having made it directly in front of the building, as Sasha, Josh, and Mila cowered behind the windowsills, watching. In the fading light of the afternoon, Mila squinted at the tree line again. From where she sat inside the store, she could make out the dim beams of headlights shining down the road.

"Guys!" she hissed. They all leapt to their feet. The black Challenger turned in to the lot, seemingly unaware of the small hoard around the corner. With a series of indignant moans and riled snarls, the walkers turned to face the lights shining on them.

"That's Zach's car!" yelled Josh. Bits of trash and leaves fluttered and flew in its wake as the car wheeled around quickly in a fishtail to face the road. "Are they leaving us?!" he asked, his voice emblazoned by the threat of abandonment.

"Nope," Sasha answered, swiftly pulling her bag onto her back. "We've got to go!" She paused long enough to let the others swing their packs over their shoulders before erupting through the doors.

The walkers were everywhere; they had already made considerable progress towards the car by the time the three started to make their escape. The smell was ghastly; a stifled gag made its way into Mila's throat as she weaved through the gruesome crowd. Sasha led the way, firing her gun at the dead ones that would block their way; Josh was hot on her heels. Mila ripped her pistol from its holster, cocking it and snapping the safety off as she ran. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as loudly as the shots sounding from the car. Three walkers cut her off from her companions, and, with a fearful gasp, she weaved away from them and fired a two shots, hitting one in the neck and the other in the jaw. She refocused her gaze on the red glow of the taillights that shone from behind the imposing walkers' knees.

She flanked several others, which hissed and lunged as they noticed her. She heard the doors of the car open between shots. Sasha and Josh had made it to the car; now she was the only one left to save. The doors slammed shut with a low thud and the car lurched forwards. She was going to be left behind, just like in the dream! When her hope sank, the tires squealed to a stop, rocking forwards against its own momentum.

"Mila!" she heard Daryl holler, gunfire blaring out of the windows.

"Wait! Don't leave me!" she screamed.

Something snatched her from behind. Pain shot through her collarbones as she was drug, off-balance, backwards from her salvation. She looked over her shoulder in a frenzied panic, a walker had grabbed her backpack by the straps that she had loosened only moments ago and three of its fellows bore down on her not far behind it. She strained against its grip, but it was like iron. Its teeth sunk into the bag as it tried to make a meal out of her. With one last glance behind her towards its rotting face, she slipped her arms out of the straps and bolted towards the car, dodging more of the dead along the way.

The door was already open and Ant reached across the seat and pulled her inside by the wrist in one motion as he slammed the door shut. "Go! Go! Go!" he yelled, rapping the passenger headrest. Daryl floored the gas pedal and the engine roared as they sped away.

 **Note: Whew, that was close. Nice shootin' there, Mila. ):I You need practice. But seriously, don't be too hard on her. I decided pretty early on not to make her an instant bada$$; I figured it make for a more interesting long-term read if she had some room to grow. I love a story with character development. That's part of the reason I love Daryl in the show so much: he grows as the story goes on. I'm really hoping to hear from you guys. I would appreciate positive or negative reviews, either one has the potential to make this series better. And I see there's been about 18 of you keeping up with this, and you have been fairly silent. . Pick it apart! Let's see what you can tell me! 3):D**


	17. Homeward Bound

**Note: Sorry it's been so long, followers. I usually update the story on Tuesdays since they are the only days that** **I don't have classes, but life did what life does and it got in the way. My dad had a heart attack- it was mild and he's currently okay- so the scare kind of took my attention away from writing. Besides that, midterms were last week and I've been working through my spring break. And, besides that, I am REALLY excited about writing what's to come; so much so that I am struggling with writer's block for the current storyline, if we're being honest. The good news is that in my absence, you had season 7 to keep you entertained!**

"Is everyone okay?" Glenn asked, twisting to get a view of the backseat. Exhausted yet relieved groans of affirmation were uttered in reply. Mila had landed in the floorboard of the car, sandwiched between knees and the front seats, when Ant snatched her inside, and she struggled to pull herself upright. Josh helped her by supporting her elbow with the hand of his good arm, and she squeezed in sideways into the few inches of space left on the seat between him and the door. Mila banged her forehead on the window softly.

"You're okay, aren't you?" he asked, a concerned expression plaguing his face.

"I dropped the medicine," she whispered shamefully.

He patted her knee and rolled his bottom lip inwards, raising his eyebrows encouragingly. "Not all of it, remember?"

Glenn, who had been listening from the passenger seat, looked at Mila from between his headrest and his door. "We might be able to go back for it, after the walkers have had time to clear out," he said. Mila nodded with gratitude at his reassurance, but felt no less guilty over having left behind such valuable commodities. She had still had bullets in the gun- and one in the chamber- she should have shot the walker holding her back rather than slipping the bag; the illogical move marked her second condemnable blunder of the day.

"What held you guys up so long?" Sasha inquired suddenly.

"There were more up the road before we got to the car; not a herd but too many to take on," Glenn explained. "We had to take a detour through the woods, but it got pretty thick in there. It took us a while to get through all the brush."

"What happened to your face?" Josh asked, inspecting Ant on the other side of the backseat. Mila leaned forwards and, for the first time, noticed the thin, ragged scrapes extending from the tragus of his ear to halfway to his chin.

"There were a lot of thorns in that brush," he answered, annoyed, narrowing his icy blue eyes.

Josh nodded slowly. "You come across any more gnashers after all that?"

"Mhm. Just two. We put 'em down."

They spent the next five minutes in silence, shaking their heads whenever the car bounced on the old, uneven road. With five people in the backseat, the ride was worse than uncomfortable. Ant and Zach had settled into a light doze. Ant's legs were stretched into a straight line in front of him and his body was turned sideways to accommodate resting his elbow on the rear dashboard. Zach had doubled over and leaned the crown of his head low on the back of the driver's seat headrest. Sasha had laid her head back with her legs tightly crossed and arms folded. Josh's ankles crisscrossed one another in the floorboard and he propped his arms behind the girls. Mila's legs and back started to cramp from being in their awkward position. She grimaced and shut her eyes as she readjusted subtly and tried not to disturb her fellow passengers with her movements, but her discomfort did not escape Josh's notice.

"You uncomfortable?" She nodded slightly and sighed with her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she stretched her right leg.

"I'll be glad when we make it back to the other car," she said with a grouchy frown.

"We could talk," Josh shrugged. "It might make the ride go by a little quicker. Besides, you still haven't told me what kind of music you like." Josh gave her a good-natured nudge with his elbow and she shook her head, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on." She pretended to ignore him. "Well, I like the oldies. I'm a big fan of Marty Robbins," he announced to her in an impressive voice, grinning.

Though she tried, Mila could not hide her amusement. "'Out in the west Texas town of El Paso . . . '" she finally sang with a snort.

"You know Marty Robbins?" he asked with giddy incredulity.

"Of course I know Marty Robbins. I was raised on his Wild West ballads: 'They're Hanging Me Tonight', 'Big Iron', 'The Strawberry Roan', and- my personal favorite- 'Utah Carol'- were the sounds of my childhood."

"I'm impressed." He paused. "But do you know 'The Master's Call', 'cause it would be a shame if you didn't."

Mila ducked her chin with a devilish grin. "'A miracle performed that night, I wasn't meant to die. The dead ones formed a barricade, 'least six or seven high, and right behind it there was I, afraid but safe and sound. I cried and begged for mercy, kneeling there upon the ground.'"

Glenn chuckled as he turned to join the exchange. "How do you know so many songs? I don't think I've ever heard one mentioned that you didn't know."

"I made it my business to know them. Especially the ones people considered classics of any genre. I'd turn 'em on in my car and sing along to whoever was unfortunate enough to be my passenger. I used to joke that I was culturing them."

"What else do you know, then?" Josh asked, cradling his head in his hand.

"Most anything you could name," she challenged.

"Okay. We'll start with something easy and get harder as we go. Sing a phrase from something by The Beatles."


End file.
